


The Accident Predicament

by SparksOfDesire



Series: Little!John [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Accidents, Bed-Wetting, Developing Relationship, Embarrassment, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Nightmares, Non-Sexual Age Play, Not Canon Compliant, Sherlock Holmes Has a Heart
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-31
Updated: 2018-10-31
Packaged: 2019-08-11 08:08:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16471904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SparksOfDesire/pseuds/SparksOfDesire
Summary: John accidentally wets the bed. Sherlock makes it better.***Not yet age-play, but we're heading towards it.Don't like, don't read; no hard feelings!





	The Accident Predicament

**Author's Note:**

> Hi y'all <3
> 
> First ever written and posted age-play fic, so excited for your feedback!

**Sherlock**

The tossing and turning in the upstairs bedroom became impossible to ignore. Sherlock Holmes was not a person to use such exaggerations lightly, however, in this case, it was very fitting. He literarily could _not_ ignore John, even if he went into his mind-palace, his consciousness was too alert; he didn’t manage to be fully absorbed in it.

It was infuriating.

Because it was worrying.

John hadn’t been alright since he moved back in. He hadn’t been alright at all.

 

First, there was the obvious betrayal and confusion that came with Sherlock’s ‘resurrection’, then came the confusion and betrayal of his ‘wife’ being a cold-blooded assassin and his ‘unborn child’ being nothing but a scam.

The divorce was through, the ex-wife was nowhere to be seen, and John was back at Baker Street.

 

Sherlock tried to re-connect with his friend, but it was harder than he had anticipated. John was different now, even he didn’t foresee _how_ different. The intimate connection between them was distorted; it was still _there_ , but it got mixed up with so many negative emotions that most days it seemed like they gained less than they lost.

The detective would give everything in the world to help John through these difficult times, he longed for the chance to offer the comfort he knew his friend graved. Because Sherlock had changed during his time in Serbia; above all things his heart grew much more open and accepting, he was ready to drop the ‘sociopath’-charade to allow himself the feelings for those closest to him, the feelings for _John_. But John didn’t let him. He closed himself off, suspicious of Sherlock’s change of heart and doubting his friend’s sincerity on every step of the way.

The process of coaxing him back into Baker Street had been tiring and painful. But he was home, at last.

 

Only that home shouldn’t feel like this. Sherlock wanted to offer John the home he needed so badly after all these horrible months; wanted to create the safe-space that the doctor graved so much that it was so blatantly obvious, not even Anderson would be able to miss it.

 

The movement stopped abruptly, which was, somehow, even more worrying.  It indicated that John had been jostled awake by whatever memory and/or nightmare was plaguing him. Sherlock listened for the tell-tale signs of John’s after-nightmare-routine, the one he was still familiar from the days where his friends’ PTSD had been a much bigger problem than it was now. At least, had been. John had been doing better. Now, he was doing worse.

However, none of them came.

Instead, only silence stretched all the way down to where Sherlock was gripping the handles of his chair too tight, breaking the leather underneath his fingertips.

Something was off.

Something was unusual.

Something called for drastic measures.

 

Sherlock had always refrained from checking up on John after an episode, thinking the sentiment was not very welcome.

However, there was a tension in tonight’s silence that made him uneasy and anxious, so he ignored the possibility of rejection and the increase of awkwardness that would be the outcome of this possibility and headed upstairs.

 

The room was bathed in cold moonlight, illuminating the outline of a figure, hunched over on the bed, silently sobbing into its hands.

Sherlock didn’t knock, he forgot all about the social niceties in the moment he got that anxious feeling in the pit of his stomach. This anxious feeling increased, until it became a heavy sense of dread, settling over him.

While nightmares had always left John nervous and agitated, they had never caused him to cry before. Sherlock could count the occasions he had seen his friend cry on one hand; the ones where John was actually aware Sherlock watched him were even fewer. It was an emotional display that was so unusual for the doctor, that it made the detective uneasy for the split of a second.

 

He wasn’t one easily frayed by emotions but seeing _his_ John Watson so broken and vulnerable took him by surprise in the worst kind of ways. He knew that John wasn’t alright. He didn’t know John was so poorly.

The trouble was that he _should have known_.

He was Sherlock Holmes. He was the master of deduction. Seeing things, _knowing_ things was his job. But he missed this. He missed how desperately John needed him, how much his friend seemed to suffer. How much he needed someone to _care_ for him, so he could have a companion in overcoming the trauma of the last months.

Sherlock Holmes was proud to call himself John Watson’s companion. His flat mate. His work partner. His best friend. John didn’t just need _someone_ ; the detective was sure of it. John needed _him_.

 

When he took a couple of steps into the dark bedroom, Sherlock realized that the crying wasn’t the only thing that was _off_ about the scene. There was a heavy, biting smell in the air; that Sherlock faintly recognized but couldn’t quite place, due to his preoccupation with frantically searching his mind-palace for a way to console someone who was sobbing pitifully.

“John?” he asked into the room, not really expecting an answer. His friend often went non-verbal when he was in any heightened emotional state; no matter if it was anger or joy, so the detective figured it would be the same with excessive sadness.

The third surprise of the night came right after the question left his lips.

 

Like a switch had been flipped, John’s head shot up to look at the detective with a shocked expression (mixed with a good amount of shame), while he drew his knees up close to his body, to block Sherlock’s view on his mid-section (hiding something) and opened his mouth to _talk_ :

“I don’t know how it happened, I _swear_ it didn’t happen before; this- I’ve never, _I’m sorry_ -“

 

It was a tone of voice that Sherlock didn’t recognize, that he pretty sure has never heard before. He could tell that John was lying (from the quiver in his upper lip) but didn’t have the heart to point it out; not when John was in too much distress to realize that Sherlock was able to see right through him with a single glance.

Carefully, Sherlock approached the bed; in need to make sure his deduction had been correct (he was rarely wrong but felt unsure after misjudging John’s state before)- it was an unlikely thing to happen, all things considered, but somehow Sherlock wouldn’t be surprised if his assumptions would be verified.

Even then, the big, wet spot and the smell he now recognized as urine were kind of sobering.

Sherlock felt instantly sorry for his friend.

 

John looked up at him like a frightened animal, drawing his knees more closely against his hunched over upper body, to protect himself from those analyzing eyes. Tears were still filling his eyes, making them appear big, and watery, and _young_. Looking at John touched a sore nerve within Sherlock; it arose the desire within him to care for John like he deserved to be cared for; to cherish him, to make sure he was well and happy and content.

The sudden powerful emotion puzzled him, because their firmly established dynamic worked differently. John was the caring one; he made sure Sherlock ate and slept and didn’t bleed out by accident. Sherlock often forgot the needs of himself and the people around him; he wasn’t attentive in the reassuring way that John was; he wasn’t the caring type. But his heart swelled as he stood there in the dark room and watched his friend fight with himself; clearly torn between throwing Sherlock out of the room and throwing himself into Sherlock’s arms.

John needed this. Sherlock could see it written all over his face. So, he would give it to him. He wasn’t the caring type, but he cared for John; he cared for John _so much_ that he threw away all the hesitation he learned to introduce in their interactions after John came back home.

 

“There’s nothing to be sorry for. Accidents happen.”

 

John’s face crumbled once again, and he quickly hid it in his hands. He shook his head violently, as if to deny the situation they found themselves in. Sherlock took another step closer, so that his knees were touching the edge of the bed. He reached out a hand (carefully, aware that it could startle John in his current state) and scratched his friend’s scalp, in what he hoped was a soothing manner.

 

“But-“ another quiver of his upper lip- “But I’m-“ fighting for the words to come out- “not a _baby_.”

 

John turned, to bury his face against Sherlock’s stomach and let out a single, quiet sob into the expensive dress-shirt. John had been hesitative when it came to bodily contact; always had been but it had worsened with the betrayal. This was way out of the extend of their usual points of contact; this was close, and new, and intimate.

Sherlock held onto it like it was the only thing that could make this situation better (it was, probably); he let John hug his mid-section and cradled his head securely.

 

“Of course, you’re not a baby. Everybody can have accidents. That doesn’t make you a baby.”

Sherlock didn’t know why he was even reassuring John about this kind of thing; he and John both were aware that he was very much an adult, nowhere near an infant. But it seemed like the right thing to do; it seemed like the thing John needed to hear. This new discovered side in himself seemed to know what he needed to do, what he needed to offer, to give.

Sherlock didn’t know he was capable of being so gentle, and caring, and _loving_. Then again, John Watson had always known how to push his buttons. How to touch his heart. How to make him _human_.

God, how he cared for him; always.

God, how he _cared_ for him, right in that moment.

 

“I’m sorry,” John whispered again; urgently, anxious to get his point across, like Sherlock would be mad at him if he didn’t. What an obscure concept.  “I didn’t mean to. It just… happened. I would never mean to….”

“I know.”

Sherlock was attentive to soften his voice to the warm timbre John always reacted positively to. “You don’t have to apologize. It’s alright.”

“It’s really not,” John’s voice was muffled by the fabric of the detective’s shirt; it had lost some of its desperate panic but was still laced with shame and vulnerability.

 

“C’mon. Let’s get you sorted out.”

That elicited a reaction, just not the pliant agreement Sherlock had hoped for. Instead, John dropped his arms from Sherlock’s waist and stared at his friend with an expression of humiliated horror. The detective surprised himself with the proposal, considering it was way out of his usual behavior and the boundaries firmly established in their friendship.

They just didn’t do this.

Sherlock didn’t look after John. Sherlock didn’t help John. Sherlock was a self-centered bastard, and John was his selfless, caring doctor, blogger, and friend.

_This_ wasn’t them.

But it could be.

 

“You, what?”

“Let me help you.”

There was a rush of emotion on John’s face: First surprise, then longing, then (instantly) shame.

“You don’t have to-“

“I know.”

John blinked, his eyes still so unbelievable _young_. There was something in them that Sherlock had never seen before, but it called to him; he felt it tug at his heart forcefully and in a wild epiphany, he realized that he loved John Watson; that he always had; that he always would; that he would give the world for his selfless, caring doctor, blogger, and friend.

John needed him to be in control, to take the lead (although normally the doctor was the driving force in their every-day-lives), to make sure everything would be alright.

 

“Sherlock-“

“Do you trust me?”

 

There was a significant pause; in which John fiddled with the blanket draped over his knees and Sherlock silently counted the seconds. He didn’t realize how invested he became into these new dynamics that only just barely surfaced between them. He might have gotten a little carried away with his deductions. Maybe he had miscalculated again. Maybe John didn’t want him to do that; maybe John needed comfort, but he wasn’t comfortable with Sherlock giving it to him. While Sherlock figured he would be a tad too devastated about this possibility (considering he only just acknowledged his caring side twenty minutes ago), John’s consent was vital.

Without it, Sherlock was blatantly forcing himself onto John in a moment of weakness.

The thought was enough to make the detective back away a little, to give John some space.

He was rushing into something he didn’t even fully understand.

He needed to research. Data.

Later, though.

Right now, John needed to get out of his sodden pants and into a warm shower.

One step at a time.

He would sort the clutter in his mind later on.

 

“I really want to trust you.”

“That’s good enough for now. Take a shower, I’ll take care of the bed.”

 

All the rosy color (from the blushing) drained out of the doctor’s face.

“I can clean up after myself.” It lacked the usual heat, yet there was a fight somewhere in that statement.

“I never doubted that. But I’m offering my assistance, you look like you need a friend.”

**John**

At this, John sighed and rubbed his hands over his still tear-stained face; resurfacing out of the surreal haze he had been under since he had woken up to a wet bed.

“What I need is therapy,” he mumbled. “Fine,” the doctor told the wall, after another second of silence. He shifted self-consciously, twitching violently in shame when the movement caused a quiet wet sound.

Sherlock pretended that he didn’t hear it.

John licked his lips, blinking violently. The whole significance of the situation they were in of what Sherlock just had to witness came crashing down on him. Not only had he wet the fucking bed, he cried about it until Sherlock barged in here like a fucking mother-hen to help him clean up his own fucking mess. Like a god-damn baby.

Part of him wanted to yell at Sherlock to get the fuck out, that he was invading his privacy; that this was way too intimate and that he didn’t want to share it with _someone like Sherlock_.

But he didn’t.

Because it wasn’t true.

He was trying his earnest to will himself to hate Sherlock.

But he didn’t.

And Sherlock was different now, Sherlock worked hard to mend their relationship. And it _worked_.

But this right here; this was different. This hadn’t been there before. It was new.

Utterly terrifying.

Humiliating.

And safe. So fucking safe.

He wanted to bask in this feeling; loose himself in it and just let Sherlock take the lead, Sherlock always knew what to do. Sherlock was capable to deal with everything; and John wanted him to deal with _this_ so desperately.

But he wouldn’t say that

Because he wasn’t a whiny baby.

 

“Fine,” he said again, just clear these thoughts out of his head. He didn’t know why he made the baby-connection so instantly, or why it gave him such a weird feeling in his stomach (like he was going to be sick) when Sherlock offered to take care of him.

His pants clung warm and heavy to his crotch, unpleasant and grounding. He wanted to get out of them, as fast as possible.

Yet.

One more thing.

“Just don’t...”

He licked his lips, trying to come up with a way to phrase his request so it wouldn’t sound so damn childish.

“Don’t, what?” Sherlock prodded gently, so fucking _gently_ that John felt his resistance slip and his desire to just let himself fall into this new, weird, intriguing aspect of their friendship grew.

He hung his head and surrendered. “Don’t look.”

John watched understanding cross his friend’s face and wished that the ground would just swallow him whole. It would be easy for Sherlock to mock him in this position. It would be easy to be spiteful and mean.

But Sherlock wasn’t.

Instead, he placed a hand over his eyes. “I won’t. Promise.”

The gesture was kind of dumb and it really shouldn’t be so reassuring; but John felt very reassured and thought Sherlock was being sweet and thoughtful; and _some_ feeling suddenly bounced around in his chest, that he couldn’t quite place. Something about this moment. Something about Sherlock. Something about all the fucking little things. It did things to him that he couldn’t explain.

Instead of grasping it, John shuffled quietly past Sherlock, towards the sanctuary of the bathroom.

 

When he emerged from a way too hot shower thirty minutes later, his mind was still kinda hazy, but at least he was out of his wet pants.

Sherlock sat on the freshly-made bed (made with Sherlock’s linen, John noticed), casually against the headboard, tablet in hand.

John sat down on his own bed, suddenly feeling shy. Tonight had been a nightmare, but Sherlock had been wonderful. He caressed the soft fabric of Sherlock’s bedding; it was nicer than John’s was and it always held a faint smell of Sherlock, no matter how often it had been washed. He twisted the blanket in his fingers and swallowed around the lump in his throat. He didn’t know why he felt so damn emotional again all of a sudden; all he knew was that he really, _really_ didn’t want to be alone and that he really, _really_ wanted Sherlock to stay with him.

But he shouldn’t. He was a grown man. And, worse yet, what if it happened _again_? While Sherlock was in bed with him? He went to use the toilet again, just to be extra sure, but still. No. He would never forgive himself if that happened.

 

John cleared his throat, in an attempt to get rid of that longing in his heart.

“Thank you. I really appreciate your help.”

Sherlock looked at him and he felt that the clever detective could _see_ right through him. He blushed.

“Did you have a nightmare?”

John shrugged, avoiding eye-contact. All this caring attention had his mind going fuzzy around the edges. It was also really embarrassing, and he wished Sherlock would stop, so he could just forget that he had wet the fucking bed and pretend it was a normal night.                        

Sherlock clicked his tongue. “I see.”

Then, he settled against the headboard more comfortably, picking up his tablet again.

“What are you doing?” John asked, although he himself though the question sounded childish.

“Reading.”

John fought the urge to roll his eyes. Typical Sherlock answer.

“In my bed?”

“I’ll be here a while.”

He didn’t even look up from his damn tablet, like it was the most normal fucking thing in the world. John stared at his friend, fighting the rising _hope_ forceful down. What the hell was wrong with him today?

“Sherlock, it’s fine. You don’t have to stay.” The words tasted bitter on his tongue. “I’ll just, I don’t know, watch some Netflix until I get tired again.”

The detective gave him a pointed glare, with one perfectly raised eyebrow. “You’re tired right now. It’s blatantly obvious.”

John played with his fingers, at a loss for better things to say. His stomach was in knots and his arms and legs felt tingly, and it was like his head itched for something. John wasn’t quite ready to admit to himself what it was.

 

“Come here.”

Sherlock’s voice lost its sharp edge again, replaced by warmth that was as smooth as honey and John couldn’t- he _loved_ that voice. It wrapped the tentative request in a blanket of comfort, which the doctor didn’t resist- partly because he didn’t really want to.

He deserved some comfort, god damn it. Life hadn’t been easy on them, and the night was especially hard; anyone would want some comfort after that.

Except that usually… he didn’t. Not didn’t want but didn’t find it. Nothing other people marked as relaxing and comfortable had much appeal to him. Sure, he liked to have a cup of tea in front of the telly; but it didn’t bring that complete feeling of inner serenity people were supposed to feel when they were completely at peace with the world. He just… wasn’t. Ever since… everything happened, he just wasn’t.

 

But _this_ , this right here, this came pretty damn close. He was next to Sherlock before he even registered his own movements, head only inches away from the detective’s thigh. Sherlock’s body radiated warmth and that special smell of wood and smoke and tea. It was an almost unreal experience, when Sherlock- fucking Sherlock Holmes of all people- draped the blankets around his shoulders, wrapping him in a save cocoon.

 

John was so damn comfortable, that he almost forgot the giant elephant in the room. Only almost, though. Instantly, his body stiffed; all muscles going rigid.

“Sherlock, you really shouldn’t stay,” he gritted out between his teeth. The sheer thought of speaking the words aloud, of addressing the fact that he had not only _wet the bed_ but that it was _possible that he did it again_ made him feel sick with humiliation.

But Sherlock- bless his soul- just looked at him with that deducing twinkle in his eyes; read him very gently and instead of leaving only _smiled_ down at him. It was almost surreal, but it felt so nice that John wanted to cry (but of course, he didn’t. He had some dignity left. Although it seemed to be fading fast).

 

“It’s going to be alright. I’m right here. We’ll figure it out, whatever happens.”

He reached out and closed a comfortable hand around John’s skull, scratching softly at the skin of his friend’s scalp.

“Don’t worry, John. I’ve got you.”

Oh, this- _this_ \- feeling inside of him made his heart grow and he couldn’t remember the last time somebody had said those words to him, it must have been when he was still a child. A shudder washed over his whole body as he closed his eyes and allowed this bubbly feeling to finally pull him under.

“m’kay,” his own voice was nothing more than a soft breath.

 

And really, who could blame him for inching closer and closer, while this warm feeling sat in his heart; who could blame him if he rubbed his cheek against the soft fabric covering his friend’s thigh; who would blame him that he let Sherlock’s soft voice- reading the article on his tablet about bees aloud- lull him to sleep; who could blame him if he felt alright and at home, for the first time in a very _very_ long time.

 

Life was fucking hard, okay? John Watson deserved some god-damn comfort. And that night, Sherlock Holmes was comfort.

**Author's Note:**

> If you liked that (and left a kudo/comment/bookmark), there's more where that came from <3


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